Semi-Charmed Life

The way you said it,

and then what you said.

Stopped me in my tracks,

and the quaint feeling

of nostalgia overtook me,

but it was nostalgia for

your memories, not mine.

And it was a foggy rooftop,

and the pigeons were cooing.

(That, and the way 

you called me a velociraptor.)

Walls

And she looked across the desk,
at his hands, moving the pen
in strange lines she could not
translate. 
His head was down, reading,
his hands moving; always.


To reach out and to silence
the noise from those hands,
to make them content.
It was all she ever wanted.


Across the desk she was safe,
a grey formica sea making
boundaries of the safety type.
This desk was the caution tape
to her crime scene.


Because from across these
boundaries, oh the state lines
impenetrable- oh, the Berlin Wall
insurmountable- from this distance
she could watch
with steady gaze, subtle
because he could not see her.
He was engrossed in words,
and she was engrossed with
the moving tics
of his hands.


There was a rhythm needing
to be quieted. To be fulfilled.
She deduced this much in her
mind from across the mountain range
between them.


It kept her hands
from wandering over across the
socially constructed white paper
to his hands,
to grab them and make them be still.


She was stifled in the silences,
which stretched long and slow
like dirty rivers. Chock full of 
weird unknown nouns he was 
trying to conjure up. 
Full of toxic waste the two 
created in this caustic sense
of closeness with
the impenetrable distance
of this goddamned 
fucking table.


He read and it was agonizing,
the movement of his hands.
The soft formation of
dead words on his lips.
The motion so softened
by pink mouthy flesh
it came out not as words
but as shocking silence
that clouded the air
above his bent head.


In her stifled state
on the other side,
in the plastic chairs
she hated and stuck to in the
muggy heat, 
she made herself a perfect
statue. Still in a way inhuman,
only found in stiff royal paintings-
the kind with starched white collars.


For moving made noises
and broke the disgustingly sacred
space of nothing, 
the zero decibel hum
of their two minds 
on opposite sides
of a muddy river.


His stupid hands
would not cease their
confounded motions,
flicking a pen and navigating
broken words,
and making maps of
almost-cities 
as his fingers grasped and
squeezed and moved the air.


What the hell,
she wanted to ask,
why do you move so much,
and what on earth are you thinking?


But luckily enough, her mouth 
was shut and her hands folded
because of the brick wall that was
this desk.


And in these moments
there was a weird loss of time,
the clock in this room always
wrong in hours and minutes,
and time being something fake
and forged anyways-


but nevertheless, a long
space grew here and was cultivated
by fingers movement and small quiet
puffs of respiration.


And it was enough that she
imagined Reagan in her mind
as he said "Mr. Gorbachev,
tear down this wall!"
And in a flying leap
of bravery and 
rash foolishness 
she cleared the wall
(world-champion pole-vaulter, 
as she was not)
and reached 
across what was all of space
and time and humanity
and nothingness.


And she silenced his
perpetual motion.
Her hand 
fell soft and nervous
on his, and she looked 
and parted her mouth as to 
speak- but the look she received
from this hiatus of movement
and the breaking down of walls
(or crossing of rivers)
was enough.


Neither spoke,
but both crossed
the rubble of the broken
wall. 


[A very quick, short work of fiction/prose for you, lovelies. This is fake, mind you... hence fiction.]

Sailing Through

I told you about the
card of pills
and my heart flutter
side effects
and how scared I was.


I told you 
things I didn't want to
even admit to myself.
I told you things
that make me feel
dirty and horrible
and very sad.


I told you about the
Zoloft. I told you
how it was there.
And how much 
it scared me.


And I think in the process
I scared you.
I didn't mean to,
really, I promise.
But you stuttered and 
looked frightened.
I told you these things calmly,
about my will breaking
down at points
and how I wasn't sure
what would happen.


I only cried near the end.
And you looked pretty scared
then, too. 


But you spoke back
calmly. You said
strong words and nice
words and you 
handled it better
than I could.


This is why I tell you
these things.
I know you will react
differently, as you are
wont to do for many reasons.
You are proactive and try
to make solutions instead
of just saying that you're
sorry this happens, 
or that you feel bad
or understand.
You make me feel
stronger because
you yourself
are strong.


You can gather
words and make
them into something tangible to
help me.


You will never know
how much you help me.
You say you have no answers.
And I know there are no answers
to these things I confront you with.
But the fact that you 
don't run away or ignore me
is enough.


I wanted to hug you when
I left- you're the only
one I could tell at that point.
I couldn't bring myself to
tell anyone else.
Because you have a type
of emotional detachment
nobody else does.


Which sounds harsh.
But it's true.
But I wanted to hug you
as I left. But instead
you gave me a worried
and sympathetic look
and I left. 


I will probably talk to 
you again tomorrow.


But I did have a good night.
I ate yummy things
with my fun wonderful 
dearest Marie and went 
shopping and had a lovely time.


Riboflavin.


To conclude, cockily enough,
I am proud of myself
for being gutsy enough
to tell you these things.
I am so happy I can trust you.

Singing in the Rain

And I find it 
absolutely
heart wrenching
in a disgusting
way, 


that the poor
droog Alex 
cannot even
kill himself
in Clockwork Orange.


He may be a nasty
filthy little scumbag,
but it's really very sad
that he can no longer
take joy in anything.
His music has been taken,
and he only wants to die.


But he cannot.


And that is a cruel fate.

President of What?

Because when I am scared
I want you to hold me
and say things will 
be better.


Because I want your
strong arms to 
make sure I don't
drift away.


Because I want
you to know 
what it's like,
and I want you
to know that 
I love you.


Because 
I'm confused
and I think you
could help fix it.

Hands Remember

I'm beginning to 
scare myself.


Regardless,
I still just 
want to sleep.


And I've begun
to not care
again.


So I won't be able to care,
and I won't be able to sleep,
because medication is stupid.


I am very confused
and don't know how to feel.

The Nightman

You said you were feeling
horrible,
and you laid your head
in your arms
and coughed all
weak-like.


I audibly went 
"awww".
In a sympathetic way,
I wanted to go 
over to you
and hold you and 
rub your back
and sing to you.


You looked so absolutely
pathetic; you are so
adorable when you're sick.
But you're sick, so it's bad,
and I want to make you feel
better.


So I hope you went home
and took a nap and felt 
a little better. I hope
she took care of you
(I'm sure she did).


Whenever you are sick
I have an incredibly
strong desire to comfort you,
and make you well again.


I want to cook
you something warm
and cuddle with you
to keep you warm.
Make you tea and 
tell you stories,
let you sleep for
a long time. 


I hate to see you
feeling so low,
darling.


But it was pretty funny
when you expressed
concern at your voice cracking
all day because you're sick.
"I sound like a pre-pubescent boy".


Feel better, please.

Everybody Have Fun Tonight

I feel a 

lot like a

princess.

And I don't even have my

dress on yet.

And I am determined

to let nothing

(absolutely nothing!)

ruin tonight.

I'm going to 

dance 

(even if I really can't),

laugh with my friends,

and show off my 

wicked sick blue hair.

This needs to be the 

epitome of 

"tonight, we are young,

so let's set the world

on fire."

Leafmask

If we were quiet
enough, could 
we disappear 
together?


In our quiet 
state, I could
feel our particles 
disassembling to
become something
better.

Your Heart is an Empty Room

I have become 
a statistic
of the ever-elusive
and probably partially
fake Sylvia Plath Effect.


Female poets
are more likely than
anyone else in the
population to 
develop mental illnesses.


And so it looks like
my passion doomed me,
or something like that.


And I believe it makes sense,
I think the brains of poets
function in incredibly different
ways than those of say, engineers
or astronauts. Poets tend
to be different individuals,
different in an elusive way.


I think we are an observant
bunch, a group which 
runs the world through 
a machine in their heads
before they can process it,
so it comes out a little 
funny. Like a double-exposed 
photograph or something.


So perhaps it's
a lousy excuse for fate,
but the poetry
lodged itself
in my ill-found blood
and made itself a nest.
And then it proceeded
to poison me in the 
most beautiful way.


And then it got really bad,
you come to the brink
of everything
and you try to give up
on everything.
Every aspect falls apart
and you sit and cry
and sleep.


And then it comes back to you,
and you realize.


At least that thing
is going to be there
forever.

I Will Follow You in the Dark

I just did a lot of work.
More work in one sitting
than I think I have done
all of 2012.


And it was not fun
and I felt overwhelmed
but kept going.
And it feels good to meet
a goal I set.
Because I hate school
a lot, and it tears me down
and rips me apart,
but there are only so many days
left and I can feel the end.
I can taste the summertime.


So I'm feeling a little
accomplished.


Unprepared in other aspects,
but accomplished in others.
I feel so inspired as to 
get out my guitar.


I'm going to try to
learn 
"I Will Follow You Into the Dark".


I'm hoping I don't crash down
so hard like I always do after I
have a decently productive day.


I'm going to keep going while 
I can though.
Guitar a little,
write my mom a nice
letter for mother's day.
And hopefully write
something.


Maybe something evocative.
Maybe something bad.
Perhaps something dirty.
Possibly something prose.
Hopefully something I don't hate.


- - -


I dreamt we jumped 
in rain puddles with
school children
and laughed too hard,
we were soaking wet
and very pleased
with our adult selves
getting a little restless.


The dream abstractly 
put in my good graces,
because recently,
it's been so that I see you
and want to throw up
on your shoes.


Jerk.
(but only in my head)

Wooden Teeth

Usually when I'm sick

I think a lot,

or write something

or just watch crime dramas.

I haven't done any of those

this time around.

Instead I slept for

16 hours 

and acted like a vegetable.

Which, isn't so bad,

everyone needs their

vegetable days.

It would be great

if I didn't sound like a 

man, though.

And could go out

and do something.

Being sick is so incapacitating.

But it does mean 

I get to watch a lot

of 90s sitcoms.

tv trays

It's impossible to understand

unless you're living it.

And yeah,

I'm living it.

No Sunlight

Fixing the lighting with you
will probably be one of the
highlights of my week. 


It felt like the first
time in a long time
we had had an 
encounter of any sort that
wasn't awkward
or I wasn't feeling sad.


I like you on a ladder
when you stretch
and are confused.


That was nice.

I'll Build You a Fire

And I'd rather not sleep tonight.
I'd rather keep cooking.
Keep feeling the breezes
and let the windows stay open.


I'd rather hear the cool night,
and listen to the frogs.


I want to write,
something good-
with an emotion
nobody can pin,
but everyone feels.


But my body 
is sleepy.
It is telling me to dream.
To let my lungs 
sleep with fresh air
stirring in them. 


I want to read
and feel good.
Sleepy and content 
at night.


I don't know.


Perhaps I'll just sleep.
Perhaps I will dream.


But maybe I'll 
create something
better
than I have been.


It's been weak and feeble lately,
everything I make
and do is fragile.
I can't get back into it.
Can't make myself
make anything good.
Or at least, better.


Maybe tonight
will be the night.


But probably not.

Underneath the Sycamore

I feel like my
relationship with
everything in the universe
is extremely tense 
in this moment.


So I will mind my own
business in the corner,
baking muffins
and staying quiet.


I feel as though
nobody is getting it.


Sometimes I'm 
depressed.
Funny, right?
What with the
actual depression
and anxiety.


Sometimes I need
to leave.
Sometimes I need
to be quiet
and not see anybody
or talk to anyone.


And weirdly, 
this doesn't go away.
I'm not really who I 
was five months ago.
I don't know if I will
ever be that person again.
I miss her though.
She was alright.


I'm still getting my bearings
in the new shifting winds
and waves.
I'm usually not ok.
I'm learning to live with it.
I don't know what else to do.


It's as though
I'm on hold.
Like I'm waiting to
get my life back.


But I honestly can't remember
my life.


I can't remember 
the past four months.
I cannot pick out details.
I cannot pick out good things.


I have lost all of my sense
of time.


I don't understand it,
and it scares me
that I don't remember
things. My life. 


And if it's annoying
or if you can't handle me,
I get it.
But it's not going to change.


And if you don't want to
talk about it,
I get it.


But I'm still here.


I'm a little different.
Perhaps a little less of 
the "me" you know
(or knew), but please
don't act like I'm the same.


I have a lot of off days.
But if you want to stick
around,
please do.


Because I can't do it 
by myself.
I'm currently trying.


And it's a load
of shit.


Sorry my 
life isn't working out,
sorry it rains on your parade,
and sorry I can't pull myself together.


When it happens to you, 
let me know.
Because I'll understand.
Until you've been through it,
you have no idea.


And thank you,
to the one person who
asked if I was ok this week.
You made my day more bearable.